


The Abyss Stares Back

by ladypeyton



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Action, Adventure, Alternate Universe, Challenge Response, Character Death, Dramedy, F/M, Historical, Pre-Series, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-09 09:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7795762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypeyton/pseuds/ladypeyton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd heard of sires but never had one himself. He'd met other vampires throughout his long life but they never did seem to get along. It seems he was destined to be as alone in death as he was in life. That would make anyone a monster, wouldn't it?</p>
<p>Exist long enough and everything gets boring, doesn't it? Death wouldn't have been worth dying if it hadn't been for the slayers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Torments of Man

_Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man._

~ Friedrich Nietzsche

_Sunnydale, 1997_

 

Maneuvering her into the alley had been easier than he’d expected. This slayer didn’t seem all that quick on the uptake. Not very suspicious, either. Must be her age. She was younger than many of the slayers he’d toyed with. Of course, he’d found her earlier than he had the rest. He was used to playing with slayers who had been on the job for years and earned enough reputation to show up on his radar. This one, though. From what he’d heard about this one once he’d hit town she was well on the way toward earning her rep within a year by killing his great-great granddaddy. Brilliant! What an intriguing mix of wide eyed ingénue and steel eyed killer. This was going to be an excellent bloody year.

She swung around, eyes searching wildly for the source when he clapped loudly after she’d staked the patsy he’d hired to lure her out into the open.

“Who are you?” She tried to hide it, but he’d been around the block a time or fifty. The girl was attracted to him. This would make things much more fun. She wasn’t that bad herself. Bit young for him but give her a few years of ripening and he figured she’d make an excellent plaything.

"Name's Spike. Look me up. It'll be fun."

"Spike? What kind of name is Spike?"

"Imagine it's the same kind of name as Buffy." He smirked at the shocked look on her face.

At his smirk her features abruptly rearranged themselves into outrage. "What is it you want, Spike?"

“You'll find out on Saturday.” He grinned wickedly.

“What happens on Saturday?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously but he caught an enthralling scent in the air. She wasn’t fooling anyone.

“We start, the dance, luv. We start the dance.” He forced himself to fade into the shadows. After all, he still had a cult to decimate tonight.

 

_London, 1880_

The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was the blackness. It enveloped him like a lover’s arms, he assumed, since he’d never really felt a lover’s arms, but he had a very good imagination so he decided to go with the metaphor. It occurred to him that he should be afraid, but he wasn’t. The darkness didn’t bother him the way it used to before…

His mind shied away from that thought for the moment.

He tried to raise his arm to push his glasses up his nose, not really necessary since he couldn’t see a bloody thing but it was a habit he’d formed early on in life to deal with uncertainty and, understandably enough, existing in a well of darkness made him feel fairly uncertain.  His arm was blocked at his hip by a wall, though. Odd that there could be a wall so close to his face and yet he couldn’t see it.  The realization quickly dawned that it probably wasn’t a wall at all since he was most certainly lying on his back, gravity being universal no matter how dim the light was.

This was bothersome. He tried moving his arms out at his sides and was blocked again. He suspected that there were probably walls above his head and below his feet as well because more and more it was looking like he was in a box.

A vexatious situation Indeed!

He worked his arm up his body by keeping it close to his chest and felt the surface above his face, wood, roughhewn and loosely joined. Drat. This was a pauper’s coffin, wasn’t it? Once again it occurred to him that he ought to be fashed about this. After all it’s not often one wakes up in a box, but he was really too confused right now to be huffed.

Plus, there was that really odd feeling in his midsection that was taking a great deal of his concentration to ignore. He suspected it was hunger, if hunger was something that could eat you alive for brekky and then still leave you hollowed out and burning.

He considered going into a rage about his circumstances and decided it would be a waste of time.

Nothing to it, then, he formed a fist next to his head and punched up at the roof of the box - he took a moment to consider the ridiculousness of calling the boards above his head a roof _-_ and was surprised when it shattered on his first punch. Or maybe he was surprised by the rather large amount of loose dirt that rained down on his face, but there was definitely surprise involved. He punched again and continued until the hole in the wood was large enough to pull his body through. He felt a bit like an earthworm, didn’t he? Pulling himself up towards the sky in search of…something…something wet. Wriggle. Wriggle. Wriggle ever upwards.

He could feel moisture in the air when his first hand broke through the surface. He hadn’t crawled that far. Not as far as he would have imagined he would have to crawl if he’d been buried proper. Wait. Why had he been buried, again? Obviously he wasn’t dead, was he? His hands roamed over his body reassuring himself that all his parts were where his parts should be and was vaguely relieved that they were all accounted for. There was what felt like a ragged bite mark on his neck though that left him confused for a tick.  Where?

Oh yes. That woman in the alley. She’d been a gorgeous church-bell hadn’t she? Hurt like the Dickens when she’s bitten him, though.

His ears registered the soft, enticing beat of a drum seemingly in the distance and his eyes slowly adjusted to the bright light of the moon as he pulled himself the rest of the way out of the dirt and looked around.

_Why hello, Mrs. Abernathy (Born ~ 1812, Died ~ 1878 Loving wife, mother and grandmother You will be missed).  It looks like we were neighbors for a while. I hope you don’t mind but it seems I’ve trashed the neighborhood. You probably don’t, considering your survivors had been so unimaginative as to have chosen that tripe as your epitaph. It’s a wonder you didn’t pull yourself out of your grave along with me so you could be revenged upon them for being so pedestrian._

Abruptly he realized that not once in his travels from box to Mrs. Abernathy’s headstone had he had trouble breathing. In point of fact, he wasn’t breathing at all, was he? His lungs still worked, didn’t they? He took a large pull of air though his nose.

That smell! Oh dear lord, that smell!

That smell was making the raging pain in his gut almost intolerable. Whatever that glorious aroma was, he wanted it. He needed it. He sniffed again and looked behind Mrs. Abernathy’s appallingly hackneyed head stone to find an unconscious trull hogtied and laid out next to an oddly large pile of gloppy, ash colored dust. The smell was coming from the woman and it was splendid.

He moved closer and realized that he’d been rocking back and forth to the hypnotic drumbeat that was beckoning him from the direction of the strumpet. He knelt beside her prone figure and moved his head closer to her neck, the source of both the enticing smell and the arresting cadence and noticed a slight cut on her neck near her shoulder. His guts constricted in an agonizing cramp.

He didn’t remember moving. He’d felt a powerful shifting in his face, heard an odd crunch of bone and the next thing he knew his teeth were buried in the woman’s neck and he was drawing the most wonderful, magnificent, delicious, what was that word? Oh yes, effulgent stream of nectar from her and the pain in his gullet finally started to ease.

He swallowed convulsively and repeatedly until the pounding in his head - _Was it in his head? Oh no, he’d already identified that it was coming from the woman -_ finally started to slow to a crawl and ultimately ceased just as the flow of heavenly ambrosia flowing from her neck slowed and stopped.

He raised his head and realized that he’d drunk the woman’s blood. He’d drunk her blood all up and she was now dead. Part of him felt he should be horrified by this unseemly turn of events but really, for the most part, he wanted to know where he could find more of the outstanding feeling that drinking her blood had given him.

Most likely by finding another person and drinking their life force down, but right now that seemed excessive. Especially since he had places he had to be and people who looked to him for caretaking. He wiped his face on the slattern’s filthy skirts. They disgusted him and smelled like an alley in Whitechapel but there was nothing to be done about them as they were the only thing available since his shirtsleeves were caked with mud from the drizzle that had been falling since he’d emerged from what he now strongly suspected was his own grave as he felt much like that creature in the penny dreadful mother had brought home a few years ago, what was her name?

Oh yes, _Carmilla_. He briefly wondered if his circumstances now meant that he could change into a cat as well but decided the very idea was excessively theatrical. He supposed it was possible that the woman in the mews had been Carmilla, herself, but if she were wouldn’t she have chosen a female victim? And was that what he was? A victim? He certainly didn’t feel victimized. Now that the pain in his gullet had faded to a dull roar he actually felt fabulous. His face felt odd though.

He reached up and brushed his fingers from his forehead to his chin. There were odd ridges on his forehead and his teeth felt monstrous. He explored them in more depth and felt an enticing tingle whenever his fingers brushed them. He did so a few more times but realized that the pain in his gut increased with every brush so he decided to leave it until he was in a situation where he could address the hunger pangs.

Again it occurred to him that he was casually contemplating killing another human being in order to satisfy his appetite and, while he did feel a bit bad about the prospect, he still felt completely capable of doing so with minimal regret. Ah well. It couldn’t be helped. He briefly considered if he could manage to satisfy his hunger without killing but decided to explore the possibility when it mattered and not while he was standing soggy and filthy in the middle of a churchyard.

He looked around. Oh yes, he knew where he was. This cemetery was only a few blocks from his house and it was probably past time he arrived there to make sure the servants had properly seen to Mother before she retired for the evening. So he picked himself up and turned towards home.

Upon arrival he was dismayed to find that he’d misplaced, not only his house key, but everything in his possession including his coin purse and identification. Irritating. Now he’d have to ring the bell and wait for Elder Jenkins to ramble all the way to the front door from the Butler’s quarters, and Elder Jenkins did not move swiftly at all considering his sobriquet was _Elder_ Jenkins. A suitable name, as well, since he was fast approaching his centennial. Also, a necessary distinction, at one time, since Young Jenkins had worked with the horses. When they’d had horses.

Really, they should have replaced him long ago but he worked nearly for free and that was what they could afford right now. He’d been with the family since before Father had been born, though, and one just doesn’t release loyal domestics who had spent a lifetime in service to the family. It was for that very same reason that Mariah was still acting as their parlour maid, and Mrs. Brooks was still their Cook.

After an interminable wait Elder Jenkins opened the door.

“Master William! What are you doing out in this damp? Come in! Come in before you catch your death! Your mother has been worrying herself sick!”

“She has? What time is it? How long was I gone?” it must have been later in the night than he’d assumed. Not surprising since it most likely took a few hours to be buried and then crawl back out of a grave.

“Why, you left for Miss Addams’ gathering three days ago!” Elder Jenkins wheezed, as Elder Jenkins was wont to do.

“Three days, you say? That can’t be right. It hasn’t felt like three days at all.”

“Not felt like three days? And you are covered in muck. Master William have you been tying one on?” Elder Jenkins reeked of disapproval.

“Of course not! I was overcome” ( _by beautiful women)_ “by brigands I say! Dangerous bloodthirsty brigands!” _(not altogether untrue, actually)_ “They emptied my pockets and left me for dead.” _(again, not completely untrue) “_ I only recently woke up in the alley near the mews behind the Addams home.” He finished feeling fairly proud for having come up with such a convincing tale.

Elder Jenkins eyebrows rose, albeit he was never certain how he could tell considering that the vast majority of the elderly butler’s face seemed to entirely consist of eyebrows. Possibly his story was being doubted, but with a shrug Jenkins turned to gesture the stairs, “Her Ladyship was feeling under the weather, considering the circumstances, so she headed to her chambers to rest several hours ago. She’s been worried sick for you, Your Lordship. Barely eaten, hasn’t slept in days, and you know how dangerous that is in her condition. She though something untoward might have happened to you.”

He suspected that if he could have seen the man’s eyes underneath all that white hair he’d detect a note of chastisement. He shrugged, “Well something did, didn’t it? Brigands, Jenkins, brigands. Bloodthirsty ones, at that.” He considered showing off the wound at his neck for proof that he’d been set upon but suspected that ragged teeth marks would definitely not help his case.

At that, William Pratt, the recently impoverished and newly deceased Marquess of Lansdowne, turned to head up to check on his beloved mother.


	2. Overwhelmed by the Tribe

_ The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself _

~ Friedrich Nietzsche

 

**_ Sunnydale 1997 _ **

He considered paying the groundskeeper for use of the toolshed attached to the back of the school to be one of the cleverest things he’d done in his entire existence. Once he’d ascertained that this was where the Slayer spent her days and, even more importantly, where she strategized with her watcher, he’d gotten ahold of blueprints for the building and had realized that the library that was her base of operations shared ductwork with the shack. It appeared to be in disuse, since the groundskeeper was a lazy sot, so he’d been able to set up residence and had been looking in on her crack team of high school brats for days now while he waited out the sun and studied his surveyor’s maps.

Even better, there was an easily pickable door in the rear of the shack that led inside the building for the times he’d feel the necessity to break and enter in order to avail himself of the Watcher’s resources. He had a great respect for the resources of the Watcher’s Council and he longed for the days before electronic locks and surveillance cameras when he’d had unfettered access to the library in the London headquarters. The Librarian’s resources paled in comparison, but they were still head and shoulders above any other resource to which he had access.

It was the thought of the anti-theft countermeasures of the Watcher’s Council Headquarters that had triggered his second most clever idea and it hadn’t taken much to push a small surveillance camera through the vents between the shack and the library. He’d hooked it up to the portable television he kept in order to be able to view his daytime shows, which were an absolute necessity when one was trapped inside and desperate to find ways to pass the time until sunset. It didn’t hurt that it turned out that Slayer!Cam was often the most entertaining channel available to him when it came to daytime television programming.

He sighed and tried to focus on the map in front of him.  He’d come to this godforsaken town for a reason, after all. The Slayer was just icing on the cake.

In the end, though, there was no help for it. Concentration wasn’t to be had this morning so he leaned over and popped the television on in order to tune in to the conversation next door. As it turned out; he’d chosen a most advantageous time to do so.

_ “He told you his name was Spike?” the Watcher emerged from his office with a pile of books in his arms. _

_ The Slayer was leaning against a table with her arms crossed, “That’s what he said. And then he said I should look him up.” _

_ “How are you supposed to look him up if all he gave you was a nickname? It’s not as if there are many ‘Spike’s’ listed in the White Pages” her persistently horny male friend chimed in from his seat at the table.  _ Spike winced. Floppy boy’s voice never ceased to make his ears bleed. If anyone deserved to be eaten by a grue it was him. He made a mental note to look into whether or not there were any grues in the Sunnydale area in case he needed a laugh some time.

_ “That’s what I’m here for,” the Slayer’s perky and attractive young ginger friend chimed up from behind her laptop. “Looking people up, running general internet searches, hacking into government databases. All the wholesome stuff.” _

_ “Still,” Watcherman chimed in, “Spike is not much to go on. It will probably take some time, if you are able to uncover anything at…” _

_ Ginger, “Got something!”  _

_ “Pardon?” _

_ “I found something! It didn’t take long at all since I figured I’d start with the Watcher diaries that you had us digitize last spring.” Ginger replied somewhat smugly. _

_ “Oh dear. If he’s in the Watcher’s diaries that means that…” the Watcher pulled his glasses off of his face and frantically began wiping them a square of cloth he’d fished from his pocket..  _

_ Horny-boy piped up, his mouth half full of some kind of appalling jelly filled pastry “He’s a vampire?!” _

_ “He can’t be!”  _ If Spike wasn’t mistaken there was actual dismay in the Slayer’s voice. That was something to reflect on later.

_ Ginger grinned, “Yep. He is. Oh!” _

_ “What ‘oh’, Why ‘oh’?” The Slayer moved from her perch on the table to peer at Ginger’s screen. _

_ Ginger, “He fights slayers” _

_ “That’s it! He’s going to kill you!” Floppy sprayed pastry sugar everywhere with his enthusiastic blurt. _

_ “I said fights, not kills.” _

_ “That’s it! He’s going to turn you!” _

_ “Strike two. Nope. He just fights them. Over and over, but for some reason he always leaves them alive. There are even reports of other demonic activity decreasing once he enters the picture and there’s speculation that he’s responsible. So it looks like he actually  _ helps _the Slayer” Ginger read from the screen in front of her._

_ The Watcher moved closer to the group to try to get a view of the laptop screen, “I think I’ve heard of this vampire, but I never expected him to show up so early on in your career as Slayer.” _

_ The Slayer’s voice moved from upset to appalled, “What does that mean?” _

_ “According to legend, if a Slayer manages to survive long enough to make a name for herself, there’s a vampire that tends to show up in her territory to bedevil her but it usually takes several years for him to do so” _

_ “He’s going to sick the devil on me?! I so do not need this right now! Especially with the Night of St. Vigeous about to happen!” _

_ A new voice chimed in from close to the library door, “It looks like St. Vigeous has been cancelled. The Anointed One and his cult are all dust.” A tall, dark and annoying man wandered into camera view. _

Spike wasn’t sure he liked the way the Slayer looked at the newcomer, _“Angel! You took out the Anointed One? Go you!”_

Angel? That name sounded familiar. He knew he’d met this wanker before, but where?

_ The Wanker responded, “Umm…no. Not me. Word on the street is that it was a new player. Another vampire. Probably one who wants to become Master of Sunnydale, himself.” _

Spike snorted quietly to himself. Become Master of a shithole like Sunnyhell? He thought not. What a staggering waste of time.

_ The Watcher interjected, “I think that’s unlikely. While Spike seems to have the fighting skill to become a Master, he has never bothered to follow through.” _

_ “Spike?! Is Spike here?”  _ Huh, seems like the Wanker remembered meeting him. Well of course he did. Spike grinned. He was a memorable kind of guy.

_ “Seems so.”  _ The Slayer responded with enough dread in her voice to make Spike preen even more.

_ “This is a disaster! Once he starts something he doesn’t stop until he’s achieved his goal, and he’s completely obsessed with Slayers!” _

_ “So you know him?” Her eyes were simply glowing at the wanker.  _

_ “Yes! Well, I’ve met him. Once. We’re kind of related.”  _ At that Spike sat up and took a second look at Darth Vampire. He’d always wondered about his heritage. Enough, at one point, to search out a Medium to interrogate about the subject before he’d eaten her. According to the information he’d been able to uncover he was a member of The Order of Aurelius, a family of vampires that consisted mostly of cult members who followed The Master. All other information had been unattainable by the sources he’d been able to locate.

He wasn’t sentimental about his roots. Aside from passing curiosity he didn’t care one whit about where he came from. He’d managed his entire existence without a sire and he didn’t need one now, but he did admit that he was curious. He’d look into this Angel the way he’d looked into the Order, and then he’d probably grant the tall broody vampire the same fate he’d granted the rest of his line, a swift and dusty death.

_ “What, he’s your long lost Brotherpire?”  _ the Slayer’s voice broke through his thoughts.

_ “More like I’m his grandsire.”  _ Interesting. He wondered in the Watcher’s resources included enough information about the souled vampire that he could finally learn ‘Carmilla’s’ real name and whatever became of her that kept her from being there to greet when he’d risen.

_ “Soulboy’s a grandpappy?”  _ Floppy Boy injected his response with enough venom that Spike began to wonder at the dynamic between him, the Slayer, and the vampire. There was jealousy in Floppy’s voice. Curiouser and curiouser.

So the wanker had a soul. He now recalled their previous meeting. At the time they’d met he’d wondered what it was that could have possibly turned a vampire into the great big puddle of brood that he was. Now he knew and resolved to avoid getting a soul at any cost if this was the result.

_ “I met him once in the ‘40s. He’d been taken captive by the Germans during WWII and they were shipping him and a few other vampires from Poland to Germany to try and create some sort of supernatural secret weapon for the Axis, when the US Navy captured the U-boat. It was on its way across the Atlantic when it disappeared from radar.  The Navy looked me up and asked me to try to rescue the submariners.”  _

_ “You worked for the Government? What, you’re Secret Agent Vamp?”  _ Spike suppressed a snort. Maybe Floppy Boy had his uses if he hated the elder vampire as much as it seemed.

_ “No. It was just that one time. When I was able to get access to the sub I discovered that the vampires had escaped and had terrorized the crew.” _

_ “So you killed the evil vampires and rescued the sailors?”  _ he could almost hear the hero worship in the Slayer’s voice. It was nauseating. He couldn’t wait to smack that tone right out of her voice. Made him want to hurl, it did.

_ “Well, not quite. Spike had already killed the other vampires.  By the time I managed to get on board he was sitting in the mess quarters getting drunk with half the crew.” You could cut the disapproval in the souled vampire’s voice with a knife. _

_ “So the submarine had taken a little break to get drunk at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean?”  _ Ginger piped up, startling him. With the arrival of the other vampire, he’d forgotten that Red was even in the room.

_ “Well not really. There was a problem with the engine and the crew was getting drunk while the engineers worked on fixing it. I ended up talking to him for several hours while we waited for the repairs. Buffy, he’s an asshole. He’s an asshole that is completely fixated on Slayers.” _

_ “Although it seems he doesn’t kill them.”  _ He couldn’t place the tone in the Slayer’s voice, but it fascinated him. Regardless of her relationship with his newly discovered grandsire it looked like she was very interested in himself. He couldn’t help the smirk that broke out on his face.

_ “No, but it’s not out of the goodness of his heart. He doesn’t kill them because he likes to play with them. He’ll ambush them and fight them almost to the death but he always stops just shy of killing, not because he’s against killing, but because he doesn’t want to have to go to the trouble of tracking down the next Slayer.”  _ This was the most worked up Spike had seen the other vampire since he’d entered the library. He wondered if it was because of Spike in general or if it was because of the vampire’s obvious relationship with the slayer. It seemed like Soulboy considered Spike a threat. Good. Because he was.  One didn’t fight and survive slayers as often as he had without becoming one of the best fighters on the face of the earth.

_ “So you’ve seen him kill then? He killed the navy guys after he got drunk with them?” the Slayer asked. _

_ “Well, no. He stuck to eating Nazis when I was there, but he killed the Nazis he ate!” _

_ “Does that mean you didn’t kill the Nazis that you ate?”  _ Good on her. She wasn’t letting go of this line of questioning.

_ “No. I was already full from….I was just already full, okay?” _

Spike snorted in disgust and turned off the television. Now that the Great Forehead had prodded his memory he knew exactly what the prat was full from. Or whom.  One of them had killed Allied sailors during that voyage and it wasn’t Spike.  He sat up and started to roll up his maps.  He’d gotten done all the work he was going to for now. It was time to get some kip, before that prancing Neanderthal put him right off his good mood.

 

**_ London 1880 _ **

Well that was a nasty turn of events, wasn’t it? All he’d wanted to do was give his mother the same gift he’d received from ‘Carmilla’ but it hadn’t turned out correctly at all. He wondered if he’d done it the right way. He’d followed all the steps he remembered being performed on him when he had been turned, but maybe the ethereal vampiress had taken steps to complete the process while he was unconscious. His mind shied away from the fact that he hadn’t been unconscious at all. He’d been dead. That thought still bothered him.

As did his interaction with his mother once she’d woken up. That encounter was disturbing beyond measure.

So did the fact that he no longer showed up in mirrors. Unfortunately, he hadn’t discovered that nasty little secret until he’d already eaten the staff. He hadn’t meant to, either. It was difficult to run a house without a minimum staff but he’d woken up ravenous the morning after he’d arrived home and Mariah was the first unfortunate soul he’d come upon in his hunger. He’d drained her before he even realized what he was doing. Unfortunately he’d run into Elder Jenkins on his way to dragging Mariah’s corpse to the coal bin, where he’d decided to store her until he could figure out a better method of disposal and in his rush to make certain that Elder Jenkins raised no alarm William had accidentally snapped the older man’s neck.

Mrs. Brooks was the last to go, but by that point he had felt so repelled by his lack of self-control that he’d simply terminated her employment. He’d thrown a few coins at her in lieu of a formal discharge of wages and articulated that she should never again darken his door. One look at his face and she hadn’t even attempted to cadge a reference from him. He hoped he’d managed to keep his human face to the fore, but he wouldn’t have placed a wager on the matter.

However, no matter that his interactions with the staff had ended in tragedy, those interactions held no candle to the unqualified catastrophe that was the result of his attempt to turn his mother. His absolute pleasure in how hale and hearty she had appeared when she’d risen paled in comparison to the abject horror that he’d felt upon her interaction with him. She’d tried to… She’d tried… He simply could not think upon this subject so he’d packed it away to the back of his thoughts and tried not to feel how alone he now was.

William had never _been_ alone before. Certainly, he’d felt loneliness, especially when he’d come to the realization that there was something in him that differentiated him from his peers. There was something inside him that kept him from being able to connect with other people his age, but he’d never been _alone._ He’d always been able to return home and pour his hopes, dreams, and failures into his mother’s loving arms.

But now….

But now.

William sniffed and hardened his resolve. Stiff upper lip, Old Chap. He’d survive this. He’d survive it and thrive. It was the only way to go on.

If only he could figure out what his next step should be.


	3. Chapter 3 - Fly into Flying

_He who would learn to fly one day must first learn to stand and walk and run and climb and dance; one cannot fly into flying._

~ Friedrich Nietzsche

_**Sunnydale 1997** _

Late at night when Spike was bored he tended to let himself into the school and wander its halls. It was research, he told himself, for the time he finally decided to step up and take on the Slayer. In more honest moments, though, he’d admit to himself that he was simply bleedin’ bored and interested in places the Slayer spent her daytime hours. Something about her was different than the others he’d fought. He just didn’t know what it was yet and it was driving him barmy.

It was during one of these forays, the same night that he’d listened in on their conversation about him that he noticed the rather obvious cameras placed on the ceilings throughout the school. It had never occurred to him that they’d put up closed circuit security cameras in a high school but it seemed they had.

The camera's presence could pose a problem if they ever picked up on Spike’s visits so he’d have to search out where they were controlled from and watch the recordings to see if they’d ever caught him on tape.

No matter how dastardly his reputation it would never be able to survive apprehension by the 5-0. There was no way he’d allow Dred Spike to become Fed Spike.

He followed one of the cables, set outside and along the top of the walls indicating that the camera system had been installed well after the school was built and also that corners had been cut in their installation. Which was a good thing. Hopefully the school board’s penny pinching had also lowered the quality of the system installed.

The cable ended in a room off the Principal’s office where a barrage of wires crawled down the walls and terminated at a bank of three screens. He tried to locate the computer that controlled the system, or at very least the place where the VCR tapes were loaded but close scrutiny indicated that there was no permanent record taken from the cameras. They were there so that a guard of some sort could watch over the school live while he sat at this desk.

Obviously the night guard and the groundskeeper were related in some way as there was no evidence that anyone had occupied this room for a very long time. It was a wonder that the screens were even turned on.

One of the monitors clicked over to the library and he realized that the view from this angle showed almost the entire room instead of the area immediately surrounding the table that his camera caught. Which gave him an idea. He played with the buttons and dials on the screens and was pleasantly surprised to discover that sound was also available.

There had to be some way to patch himself into this system.

Since he had stretched the limits of his technological knowledge when he shoved his own tiny spy cam through the air vents he decided that he was either going to have to get some help or he could cut corners a bit with other skills he possessed in abundance.

He headed back to the library with the intention of poking through the Watcher’s private stash of books; where he knew from previous exploration that he’d be able to find several books on the subject of magic.

It was while he was sitting in the Librarian’s office with his feet kicked up on the desk reading _Technimagus: The Methodological Intelligencer; Being a Complete System of Technological Imagination, Or A Modern Treatise on Technopaganry_ when he realized that someone had entered the library and was heading towards the office that he was sitting in. They moved silently but made enough noise that he realized that whoever it was had no idea someone was already in residence He took up his book and moved to hide behind the large wooden door, making sure to peek his head out just far enough to see what was going on. He needn’t have bothered all that much because whoever they were they never actually entered the room, instead they reached towards the key rack mounted on the wall right inside the doorway and nabbed the heavy iron key that was obviously used to open the surprisingly solid book cage on the other side of the room.

Which was alarming because the air vent that was the terminus for Spike’s own camera was located in the book cage. Did the intruder know about the camera? Spike emerged from behind the door and poked his head around the door jamb so he could see the area in question while he, himself, remained out of sight.

It was the tosser he’d met on the sub in 1941. Angel, was it? Or Angelus? The dark haired vampire moved to unlock the book cage and instead of heading left towards the air vent turned to where a small table sat groaning under several large piles of books that Spike recognized as the ones the Slayer’s mob had been searching through for information about himself.

Spike watched as the other vampire pulled several books from the stacks and moved towards the back of the book cage where he hid them. Spreading them out along a top shelf in the corner that Spike knew from previous exploration held outdated books on alchemy, and the history thereof. 

He moved back behind the door when he realized that the wanker had finished his task and was heading towards the office again in order to put the key back where it belonged.

Task completed the interloper then exited the room, and, as far as Spike could hear, the building as well.

Curiosity piqued beyond meaning, as soon as the coast was clear Spike grabbed the key and headed over to the cage to find out what had caused the souled vampire to break into the office and hide things from the girl he was presumably dating.

All in all he found eleven books that had nothing to do with alchemy or alchemical history. Five of them were obviously misfiled from the shelf below. The remaining six were all Watcher’s Diaries, all at least a hundred years old by the look of them. He moved back to the desk that he’d previously been relaxing at and cracked them open.

An hour later he’d established that each and every one of the books held several entries that explicitly described actions taken by the wanker, obviously before he’d acquired his soul. Some of them were so brutal they’d even disgusted Spike, who was no stranger to death, mayhem, gore and destruction.

Tickled beyond the telling of it, Spike grabbed some scrap paper and tore it into strips. He was going to bookmark every single disgusting action taken by the other vamp. He’d leave the books out on the large table in the middle of the room so that the Goodie Goodie Gang had no recourse other than to notice them and the pages he’d indicated.

Thoroughly pleased with himself, Spike grabbed the technopaganry manual he’d been reading and headed back to his drum for some light reading before bed.

_**London 1880** _

William was drunk. The decanters in the library were all empty and he was very drunk. The problem was that, so far as he knew, the decanters miraculously filled themselves as he had no idea how they ended up full, they simply always were.

Damn Elder Jenkins for being so efficient.

He was hungry as well. Draining the blood from a dead, extremely aged man was a lot more disgusting than he’d ever considered so that was a waste. The last time he’d eaten was poor Mariah and that was days ago, if his sense of time hadn’t been completely obliterated by the amount of alcohol he’d consumed.

He’d considered sneaking into his neighbors’ stables and eating the horses. He’d discovered, during his nighttime neighborhood wanderings, that the beasts were not as troubled by his presence as he would have imagined, him being a predator and whatnot. They, in point of fact, were singularly unimpressed with him. Considering their size, he thought that he might even be able to eat one without killing it, but then how would he disguise the fairly obvious and noticeable bite marks? Wolves don’t tend to sneak into stables and bite horses, only once mind you, and then leave quietly. In addition, how in the world would a wolf reach a horse’s neck to bite it at all? They’re not all that tall. Also, he really loved horses. It broke his heart that they’d had to empty their stables when they’d hit upon hard times. He loved taking them out to the countryside and galloping along at breakneck speeds. Quite a glorious rush, it was. It seemed a crime to ruin good horseflesh for a snack, no matter how hungry he was.

Nothing to it, then. He was going to have to go out tonight, but where? It would have to be somewhere far from the house. He was tired of burying bodies in the basement. He might not have bothered, but it turned out that moldering corpses smelled and his nose was a lot more sensitive these days. For one thing he could tell when the chits next door, the Magistrate’s three simpering daughters were on the rag. Which was an unendurable situation as hungry as he was. He could do nothing about it, too, not that he hadn’t tried. He’d managed to jump to a second story balcony last night but even though the window was unlatched, he’d found he was unable to enter. Not something he remembered coming up in his reading of both Carmilla and Varney the Vampire, although he had to admit that aside from the sapphistry in the former he did not remember many details.

He was going to have to find a way to get a copy from the book shop. Once again he missed Elder Jenkins. Between the library’s decanters and running errands the man had been damned useful.

He was going to have to decide upon tonight’s destination soon. Dark was falling and he was starving.

The local area was simply out of the question. He’d like to avoid the colossal uproar that would be raised if dead bodies started showing up. Most of central London was going to be difficult to arrange for dead body disposal. No, his best bet was somewhere near the docks. It was dark, quiet, and loaded with ruffians already willing to take advantage of the migratory nature of the merchant seamen. He’d have to change his clothing, though. Wearing dandy duds on the docks after dark was asking for attention he just wasn’t ready for as of yet. Maybe Young Jenkins had left some togs behind when he’d moved on to greener pastures.

He’d been lucky and between the belongings left behind by Young Jenkins and the one’s he’d located in Elder Jenkin’s rooms he’d been able to cadge together a pair of grey woolen trousers, a simple muslin shirt, a black ill-fitting broadcloth vest and an only slightly crumpled bowler hat. He wished he could see himself in the mirror so that he could ascertain whether or not he looked completely ridiculous, but beggars could not be choosers. He’d gauge his appearance on how people reacted to him.  A proper outfit should allow him to fade into the background and afford him a modicum of anonymity.

He’d also found a significant amount of money between Elder Jenkins and Mariah’s rooms. He was lucky that Elder Jenkins tended to save his wages and that he’d had a rabid distrust of banks as the elderly butler had quite a bit of dosh stashed away in a cigar box under his bed. William grabbed a few coins and stashed the rest in his room.

On his way out the door he studiously avoided looking towards the French doors that opened into the sitting room. He’d shut the room up after his mother’s demise and never intended to set foot in it again. It might be a good idea to move something in front of the doors so that he wouldn’t have to look at them. Possibly a bookcase or two from the study. The ones in the library were entirely too heavy to move and were, quite possibly, even built into the wall. However, William being a scholarly sort of gent had placed several smaller bookcases in his study when he’d returned from university and they would be more than effective, if not suitable since bookcases did not really belong in hallways.

William was becoming more and more certain that he did not give one fig for propriety.

One Hackney ride later and William was in walking distance of Victoria Docks, or the _Royal_ Victoria Docks as they’d recently be renamed. He’d decided on Royal Victoria because they were large enough to hold steam ships and steam ships meant people, lots and lots of people, many of whom were immigrants or travelers, both of which were groups that didn’t cause an immediate ruckus if a member disappeared.

In addition, the constant burning of coal in large enough quantities to power the ships often caused a haze to blanket the area, effectively blocking objects from being viewed from too far a distance. Thankfully electric lights hadn’t been installed yet, as they had in Billingsgate. He remembered reading an unfavorable opinion about the Billingsgate lights in an issue of Punch the year before. Something about throwing an unfavorable glare on the fish.

By the time he reached the first tavern he’d already realized that he should unbutton his vest, loosen his shirt tails, muss his hair, and knock some wear into his hat, at which point he’d decided he had achieved maximum inconspicuousness so he headed right in, ordered a draught, and leaned his hip indolently against the counter as he took in the room.

The room, in turn, studiously ignored him, so he took his time assessing the crowd around him.  It wasn’t long before he had chosen a victim in an exceedingly drunk and antagonistic thug who had bullied everyone he came into contact with and was also already making his way towards the exit, possibly to move down the road in search of more innocent prey. He suspected that removing the ruffian from this plane of existence was a favor to all those who had been bullied everywhere. Which then reminded him that at some point there were some young men much closer to home that deserved a similar fate.  In fact, he felt, a message should be sent so that all men everywhere might rethink their bullying ways. It was a favor to all of London, if you asked him. The city should throw him a parade.

He followed the thug around the corner through an alley and moved to overtake him. He could already feel that his fangs had elongated and his forehead had grown ridges. Just as he leapt forward to stop dinner in his tracks, though, the burly man swung around, surprising William, and clocking him in the temple with a fist that felt like a hammer. The lout proceeded to follow up with his other fist to William’s belly, which normally would have caused him to lose everything he’d eaten so far that day. In fact, normally the blows would have caused William to sink to the ground in pain to kneel pathetically in everything that had been liberated from his stomach. Instead he felt a jolt of excitement and a stirring in his loins as he vaguely realized that he’d developed an erection.

New and improved William, however, grunted as the air was knocked from his lungs. Was he still breathing? He briefly wondered why that was before he reached up, grabbed his victim by the neck and threw him up against the alley wall. If his stomach had hurt just a little less, or if he’d been just a little less hungry, or even a little less hard he might have taken the time to come up with some kind of witty repartee, but as it was he was so hungry and horny he could barely form sentences. Before he knew it he was gums deep and moaning as he drank down the bastard’s warm, molten life.

When he was finished he let the body drop and looked around for a suitable way to leave his message. Eyes darting back and forth they finally lit upon the perfect instrument. He should have remembered that work was being done on the Silvertown Tramway; he thought as he, one by one, drove railroad spikes through his dinner’s limbs and pinned his message to the alley wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken a page from some other writers and have put quite a bit of research into Victorian London.
> 
> Roughly 95% of high schools with a student body between 300-499 have closed circuit security systems.
> 
> Since Dracula publication postdates William's turning I had to look up publications that were already in print and therefor familiar to Spike. Carmilla, with its lesbian theme and Varney the Vampire, an honest to ghod Penny Dreadful were both published within a few decades before 1880. Polidori's The Vampire predate's William's turning by 61 years, but was written by a contemporary of Lord Byron so I just assumed that poetry loving Spike would still have been aware of it.
> 
> Components of William's "disguise" were taken from illustrations of working class men of the time.
> 
> The "Royal" in Royal Victoria Dock was added in 1880. Before that time it was simply known as Victoria Dock and it was the only dock at the time large enough to dock steam ships. A train did run from the north side of the dock to Silvertown called the Silvertown Tramway. I have no idea if it was under repair in 1880. I made that up.
> 
> Billingsgate was wired for outdoor electric lights by that point in time and the quality of the lights was discussed and cast in a negative light (snerk) in Punch in 1879.
> 
> My Google fingers are tired so I will leave it at that, I hope you enjoyed.


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